


How It Begins

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: SAU-niverse [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: (its all off screen and not described), F/M, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Slurs, anti-scottish sentiment, harry is a lovestruck little fool, merlin is severely repressed, mr pickle and that scene, the galahad trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 07:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12476500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: “You’re offering me a job.”“I’m offering to take you on as my apprentice. If you do well, then I’m offering you a job.”----"You’re a spy.”“Yes.”“And you want me to come be a spy too?”----Kingsman is an escape for Ian, an opportunity for Harry, and an exercise in trust for both of them.





	How It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read Something About Us yet, stop! No, this doesn't actually contain any spoilers for that fic (I think), and it takes place first in the timeline, but I swear, reading SAU first will be so much better. It's also probably the better written one, but I loved this universe too much to leave it alone.
> 
> I've decided; f*** you Vaughn, this universe is canon now. As Merlin's name was never explicitly revealed in the movie, I'm keeping it Ian Grey in this, although I will make his middle name Hamish when that becomes relevant and I will be switching over in the future. Also, I couldn't resist throwing in the reference to the comics. I thought it worked with the parallels I was going for.
> 
> Not Betaed or Brit-picked, so if there are any issues let me know.

**1978**

“No, Mother, please don't cry.” Harry pulls her into a tight hug, but it doesn’t stop her from bawling, her fists curled tight into the fabric of his shirt. Under other circumstances, Harry might be amused, given that one of his mother’s favourite pastimes seems to be smoothing out every possible wrinkle she can find in his clothing, but now it just edges him a little closer to joining her in tears.

“I don't see _why,_ ” she manages between sobs. “You have so much potential ahead of you. So much...you could study zoology, be a lep...lepid…”

“I wanted to be a lepidopterist when I was ten,” he tells her gently. “And I still love butterflies. I do. But I want to do something important with my life, and I think this is how I can do the most good.”

Over his mother’s shoulder, Harry sees his father purse his lips and shake his head. “I still think there are better options for you,” he says slowly, “but if this is what you want…”

“It is,” Harry says firmly. He’s not the sort to waffle about on decisions. Once he thinks of something he wants to do, he jumps in with both feet.

“Then your mother and I will support you,” his father responds. He extracts Harry carefully from his mother’s embrace and gives him a shorter but no less passionate hug, ruffling his hair affectionately. “We love you, son.”

Harry hugs him back, “I love you too. Both of you. So much.” He’s not even going to complain about his father messing up his hair (which, if he’s being honest, took perhaps a bit longer to tease into place than it should have, especially considering he’s probably just going to have to cut it anyway).

His father lets go and steps back, handing Harry his bag, “Good luck, son.”

Harry slings it over his shoulder and gives his mother one last peck on the cheek before he throws up a precise salute and turns on his heel. The car is waiting for him, and he slides into the backseat and refuses to look back as it pulls away from the estate. For all his reassurances to his mother, Harry know that if he looks back, he’ll start crying. And one thing soldiers don’t do is cry.

 

**1980**

Ian takes one last, long drag from his cigarette and drops it to the pavement, grinding it viciously with his heel until it’s shredded. He holds in the smoke until the last possible second, the nicotine numbing him just enough to take the edge off the panic bubbling gently under the surface, and when he breathes it out it’s on a much smoother exhale than he expected, given how tight his throat feels. Last one, he tells himself. Last one.

Inside the house, the yelling gets louder. Ian closes his eyes. The ticket in his hand crumples slightly as he balls it into a fist. He doesn’t need to listen hard to pick out all the slurs tumbling from his drunk father’s lips behind the shuttered windows. Hell, Ian’s heard them often enough that he could probably quote those drunken rants in his sleep

He wonders if he should wait. Another couple minutes, and maybe his mother will be able to slip past his father to see him off. Then his father’s rant hits a new decibel, and Ian flinches. Maybe not.

Carefully, he picks his bag up off the pavement, mindful not to grab it by the strap that’s broken as he shoulders it. He sets off walking, the screaming fading away behind him but still ringing in his ears, loud as ever. There’s a good chance Ian’s not going to be the one getting shot at, but even if he was, he can’t find it in himself to care. Anything is better than that too-small house filled with too much anger.

He takes his seat on the bus, crowded in between a clearly homeless man glancing around and eyeing the other passengers suspiciously and a heavily pregnant woman who looks like she hasn’t slept in days. As the bus vibrates to life and pulls away from the stop, Merlin clutches his bag a little tighter as the reality of what he’s just done hits him harder than his father ever has.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind, caught somewhere between terrified and smug, whispers to him the words he wished he’d heard from his mother. Happy Birthday.

 

**1982**

**January**

“Grey!” The call sounds far away to Ian, bent as he is over his latest project. It takes the soldier shouting his name another few tries before the fact that he's being summoned sinks into Ian's brain, and he looks up.

“You've got a visitor.”

That's...unusual is a good word for it, although it doesn't quite capture just how out of the ordinary this is. Certainly it's enough to make Ian put down what he's working on. In the two years he’s been in the RAF, no one has ever come to see Ian. There’s no one back home who misses him, and he’s careful to keep his work well shy of his full potential, lest he attract scrutiny from people he’d rather not have watching his every move. More so than anything else, Ian’s spent the last two years learning how to appear perfectly ordinary to anyone not looking closely.

The man who steps into the room is much older than Ian is, shocks of white hair receding badly so that the top of his scalp peeks out like a shiny pink upside-down bowl on his head. Wrinkles crease his face, and when he draws up a chair to sit across from Ian, he can see how stiffly his fingers move. He looks the part of a gentleman, if an aged one: his suit is crisply pressed under his coat, and what little hair he has left is carefully tamed. He looks like all the posh bastards Ian envied growing up. Ian tries not to hold it against him.

There’s a silence between them. It’s not an awkward one; Ian isn’t much of a talker and as such is used to sitting in silence, and the old man doesn’t seem especially perturbed by it. Rather, it’s a poignant silence, both men sizing the other up even as they know their companion is doing the same.

The old man speaks first, and his accent precisely matches what Ian expected. “Ian Grey.”

Ian nods, but he doesn’t say anything. Part of him wants to ask the other man why he’s there, but he’s also pretty sure that if he waits long enough, he’ll find out without asking.

When the silence starts to stretch again, the old man says, “I’m called Merlin.”

Still nothing from Ian, although privately he wonders what sort of person would go around letting themselves be called _Merlin_.

“I’ve seen some of your work. Engineering and such. You’re very clever.”

Ian shrugs.

“I’d say modest too, but we both know that’s not quite the truth. You’re letting everyone think you’re average, when in fact you’re something quite extraordinary.”

Ian suppresses the flinch at being referred to as ‘some _thing._ ’ Merlin most likely doesn’t mean anything by it, but Ian grew up being viewed as less than a person, and he doesn’t like reminders of that.

“Still not going to say anything?” Merlin studies him critically. “Very well, I’ll cut to the chase. I’m something of a technological genius myself, although compared to you I am remarkably behind the times.” He takes a small radio out of his pocket, one Ian recognizes from a design he’d worked on last year. “This is incredible. Compacting that much technology into such a tiny space…but I’m willing to bet you can do even better, can’t you?”

Another shrug from Ian. He absolutely can, but until he knows exactly where Merlin is going with this, he’s not going to admit to it one way or the other.

“I’m not the same young thing I once was,” Merlin continues. He flexes his fingers, “I don’t have the dexterity or the reflexes I once did, and it’s rather starting to hinder my performance. My superiors are hinting heavily that I need to train my replacement. I’ve put it off for far too long as it is, but lucky for me you already come with most of the skills needed.”

“Excuse me?”

“He speaks!” Merlin smirks and puts a thin folder out from the same pocket as the radio. Smoothing it out, he skims it, “Your weapons scores are excellent, no need to train you in that, although a refresh never hurt anyone. You could use a touch of work in hand-to-hand, but you have the basics. A brush-up in coding, perhaps. Engineering, of course, you’re brilliant at, I can’t imagine there’s anything an old man like me could teach you. You’re very innovative, and if you’re working with a trained team, that should play out nicely. Chatty fellow like you, I’m not sure how well you’ll do at handling, but you’re clever, and I suspect you’ll take to it like a duck to water.”

Ian blinks, and then says slowly, “You’re offering me a job.”

“I’m offering to take you on as my apprentice. If you do well, _then_ I’m offering you a job.”

“That’s it?” Ian asks. “You’re not going to tell me where it is, or what it’s for?”

“Does it matter?”

“We are in the middle of a war. You could be Russian for all I know.”

Merlin raises a bushy white eyebrow, “Do I sound Russian to you?”

“You could be trained in linguistics. Given the list of job requirements you just gave me, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Fair enough.” Merlin folds his hands together, “I work for Kingsman. The world is familiar with us as a tailor shop, but what we really do is far more important. We are an international intelligence agency, operating outside the jurisdiction of any one government.” At Ian’s look of surprise, Merlin nods, “Yes, espionage. But we’re not Russian, although we do liaise with them where necessary. We’re hardly British, when it comes down to it.  Merlin is my official title. I lead the tech and handling departments, as well as training new agents when the need arises.”

“Agents? You mean spies.”

“Quite.”

“You’re working with the enemy.”

Merlin snorts, “You’re not hearing me, boy. Kingsman is beyond any one government. Cold War or no, we make allies wherever they are useful. If that’s going to be a problem, of course, I can leave right now.”

Ian mulls it over. “What’s in it for me if I join?”

“Nearly unlimited access to the best equipment money can buy. An inventor’s paradise, and a chance to spread your wings and really excel, out from under the watchful eye of the military.” Merlin cocks his head, like he’s considering something, and then lowers his voice, “While Kingsman is still very...traditional, you understand, they are far more willing to turn a blind eye to certain...unconventional lifestyles, if indeed they should notice it at all.”

Ian’s blood runs cold. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he bites out through gritted teeth. Fucking figures. If Merlin is observant enough to figure out that Ian’s been downplaying his abilities, of course he’s noticed that Ian isn’t normal.

Merlin shrugs, “Then I’m sure it won’t be a problem. It certainly wasn’t for me.”

It’s enough to give Ian pause. He’s met plenty of men who were willing to deny their...lifestyle, as Merlin put it, but Ian’s never met someone who wasn’t gay who was willing to let people think they were. Slowly, he says, “Alright. I’m in.”

“Excellent,” Merlin smiles. Well. It’s more of a smirk, really. He extends his hand, and Ian shakes it. “Welcome to the team, Vivien.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

**June**

Harry wipes the sweat from his brow and lies back on his bunk. Dawson (who had blatantly refused to tell Harry his first name) is already, disappointingly but not unexpectedly, gone.

It’s not that Harry regrets joining the army. Not in the slightest. It’s been something of an adventure, and Harry has always been a bit fonder of those than perhaps he should be. But it’s a bit...repressive. There are plenty of gay men, but most are so far up their own arses in denial that there’s not much room for Harry, so to speak. Which is fine. It’s fine. Harry understands the need to be cautious, certainly. It’s why he still hasn’t told his parents, even though he’s known since Year 12 when he realized that his interest in a fellow cricket player, a lovely boy called Thomas, wasn’t strictly platonic.

But he wants something a bit freer. He wouldn’t even complain if it was the same sort of thing he’s doing now, job-wise. Harry does, in fact, like the army very much in terms of excitement. He’d just prefer it out from under the oppressively watchful eyes of the generals. And he’d prefer it with someone who didn’t leave bed the moment everyone had gotten off. Harry’s a cuddler. He’d rather have a partner who is too.

**November**

“Well done, Vivien,” Merlin sounds especially pleased today, and given that Ian has just finished handling Galahad’s latest fuck-up, he thinks he’s earned it. The man is perfect when they need to blow up everything in sight, but he is awful on reconnaissance missions. They only sent him in the first place because all of the other agents had been occupied. Ian swears, one of these days, that man is going to get caught in the crossfire of his own explosion.

“Thank you, sir,” he responds. He tugs self-consciously on the sleeve of his dress shirt. He still can't get used to wearing a suit. Merlin pulls it off so well, but Ian feels more like a child playing dress-up. Not that any of the supposed role models in his life ever dressed like this.

Merlin rests his hand on Ian’s shoulder. “No, really. I mean it. You’ve come a long way this year. I think you’re ready.”

“Ready, sir?”

“To take over as Merlin. To take my place.”

“Oh.” It’s not that he doesn’t want it. After all, Vivien is not the most appealing codename, regardless of whether or not it’s accurate. Galahad is anything but pure, so why does Ian officially _need_ to use the codename given to Merlin’s apprentice? So what if it’s literary canon? But Ian’s grown rather fond of Merlin in the past few months. The annoying old coot - his real name is _Walter_ , which is a good enough reason in Ian’s book to go exclusively by a codename - has been more like a father to Ian than his actual father was, although it's not a high bar, by a longshot.

Merlin laughs, “Don't look so disappointed, boy. I'm not disappearing entirely. I'll be on call until you're settled in. Certainly until you have to run trials, may that moment be far in the future. Someone’s got to make sure you don't mess up with the candidates.” His tone, as always, is irritatingly jovial, and Ian smiles in spite of himself.

“When I have to train the next Galahad, I'm sure I'll do a sight better than you, old man,” he shoots back.

Merlin laughs, “I'm sure you will.” He holds out his hand, “Congratulations, Merlin.”

There'll be a real ceremony later, Ian knows. An official passing of the torch. If there's one thing Kingsman loves, it's tradition, all that pomp and circumstance, and inducting a new wizard is no exception. But still. It feels good to be called Merlin. It feels right. Better than his name, which, while not particularly embarrassing, only ever reminds him of his father. For all that Ian thought it ridiculous at first, going by nothing but a codename all the time, he thinks that maybe this is a tradition worth keeping around.

 

**1984**

Merlin regrets every joke he's ever made about Galahad blowing himself up. They’re a lot less funny now, given the circumstances.

An agent is dead. Galahad is dead.

Or rather, Richard Clifton is dead. _Galahad_ is a title, and it will live on in the next agent who bears it. The agent that Merlin now has to train.

Merlin hasn't even been with Kingsman for two years. Yes, Walter will be on the side-lines to step in if he needs help, but even so, Merlin suddenly feels in over his head.

***

“Uncle Jack,” Harry greets him with a handshake rather than a hug. The army has, while not actually drilling it out of him, mostly suppressed that habit. It’s a miracle he doesn’t salute. “This is a surprise.”

It really is. Jack isn't actually Harry's uncle, but is he is a very close friend of Harry's father. He works for Kingsman, that tailor shop on Savile Row, but he has a great deal of business outside the country, and as such Harry rarely sees him.

“I know this is a bit unexpected,” Uncle Jack says, “but something came up at the shop. A...training program of sorts.”

Harry frowns, “A tailor apprenticeship?”

“Yes and no.”

“While I’m flattered you thought of me, I really must decline. I have no interest-”

“Hear me out,” Uncle Jack cuts him off. “But your parents mustn't find out the truth. Will you promise me you won’t tell them?”

“Won’t tell them what?”

“Promise me, Harry.”

“Alright,” Harry doesn’t quite throw up his hands in exasperation, but he does think about it. “I promise.”

“I’m not a tailor.”

Harry blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“Kingsman. It isn’t a tailor shop. Well, it is, but that’s just a cover for what we really do.”

“What you...really do?”

“I’m a spy, Harry.” It’s stated so bluntly that while Harry wants to laugh, something keeps him from it. Uncle Jack continues, “Kingsman tailors was founded in 1849, clothing some of the world’s most powerful individuals. After the first world war, most of said individuals had lost their heirs, leaving a lot of money going uninherited and a lot of powerful men with a desire to preserve peace and protect life. The founders channelled their wealth and influence into creating the other side of Kingsman: an independent, international intelligence agency operating at the highest level of discretion. We’re above the politics and bureaucracy that keep the Russians and the Americans and MI6 from operating to their fullest potential. The suit-” And here, Uncle Jack gestures to his ensemble, a pinstriped suit perfectly tailored to his form, “is a modern gentleman’s armour. And the Kingsman agent are the new knights.”

“You’re a spy,” Harry repeats.

Uncle Jack sighs, “Did you not hear-”

“No, I heard it all perfectly well,” Harry assures him. “Just...you’re a spy.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to come be a spy too?”

“Not exactly,” Uncle Jack says. “A seat has just opened up at the table. I want to make you my proposal. You’d be competing against other candidates for the position, but if you succeed, you would become the next Agent Galahad.”

Harry thinks it over for exactly three seconds. “I’m in.”

Uncle Jack doesn’t look even remotely surprised, which is probably a testament to how well he knows Harry. “Then you’d better get packed, soldier. We leave for London first thing tomorrow morning.” He stands up and heads for the door. He pauses and calls over his shoulder, “Oh, and Harry? Don’t be late.”

Harry grins as Uncle Jack disappears out the door. A spy. He’s being given an opportunity to become a real, honest-to-god spy.

***

Merlin curls his fingers tightly around his clipboard and fights the urge for a cigarette. He knows Jeanette has a pack of them in her desk, just down the hall, and she’d definitely give him one if he asked, and not just because he’s technically her boss. He hasn’t needed a smoke this badly since he gave it up four years ago.

But Merlin is determined to be a professional about this. He tucks the clipboard against his side, squares his shoulders, and lifts his chin. Then he pushes open the door to the candidates’ bunk room.

They’re all milling about in small groups, clearly already breaking up into the cliques that Walter had told him would form in the early days of the trials. Merlin has read all of their preliminary files, and it struck him that the youngest one is still a full year older than he is. They’re all posh, too, in line with the Kingsman tradition of suggesting only friends and family, and as such only the elite. Arthur, a middle-aged man named Chester (and dear lord, what was with these names? Did the upper class really hate their children so much?), had nearly thrown a fit when Walter had presented Merlin to him as his replacement two years ago, and yesterday had taken Merlin aside and warned him that his job was not so secure that he couldn’t be fired, should he do anything to taint these trials. It had taken a great deal of restraint not to punch him.

At least Gawain has some guts. His proposal is a former army nurse by the name of Diane, his niece, and Arthur had turned so red at the suggestion that Merlin thought the veins might actually burst out of his forehead.

He clears his throat, “Fall in.”

A couple people, Diane included, look up in surprise, but no one actually makes a move. Several of the boys give him half a glance and keep talking. One has the nerve to snicker.

“I said fall in,” Merlin snaps, his voice a touch louder and, unfortunately, his accent a touch thicker, than before. So much for professionalism, but it gets the job done. The candidates fall into a loose pair of lines, eyeing him curiously. Merlin clutches his clipboard a little tighter and tries not to show his panic.

He clears his throat again. Walter had given him the entire spiel, and Merlin does his best to recite it from memory. “My name is Merlin. As your sponsors may have told you, you are about to embark on what is probably the most dangerous job interview in the world. One of you, and only one of you, will become the next Galahad.”

“I’m sorry,” one of the boys interrupts, “but is this some kind of joke?” His name, if Merlin recalls correctly, is Geoffrey, and he’s Lamorak’s proposal.

For the briefest of seconds, Merlin considers engaging him, but Arthur’s words flash back into his mind and he grits his teeth. Instead, he says, “Geoffrey, is it?” He strolls over, fighting to make it look casual, and picks up one of the body bags folded neatly at the foot of each bed. He holds it up for the candidates to see, “Can you tell me what this is, Geoffrey?”

“Think I know what a fucking body bag is.”

Professionalism, Merlin thinks. “Good.” He addresses the group at large, “In a moment, you will each collect one of these. You will write your name and the details of your next of kin on it. This represents your acknowledgement of the risks that you are about to face, as well as your agreement to strict confidentiality. An agreement which, if you break, will result in you, and your next of kin, being in that bag. Is that understood?” He winces internally. Walter actually sounded threatening delivering that line. Merlin just sounds like he’s _trying_ to sound threatening.

The candidates must think so as well, because Geoffrey smirks. “I’m sorry, _sir_ ,” he says, and Merlin has no idea how he manages to make the word sound quite so disrespectful, “but I’m not sure I do.”

Merlin’s knuckles are white, and he’s a tiny bit shocked his clipboard hasn’t snapped in two. Still, he’s very good at repressing...well, everything, and his voice is perfectly level when he says, “Oh?”

Geoffrey glances back, making eye contact with a few of the other proposals, whose silence only seems to egg him on. When he turns back to Merlin, he actually advances a few steps. “Is this some kind of bullshit test?”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

Geoffrey shoves his hands in his pocket and leans back, cocking his head, “I think it must be. They’re trying to catch us off guard, right? You don’t...actually work here.”

“I don’t, don’t I?”

Geoffrey’s eyes flick down to Merlin’s shoes and back up to his face again in one sweeping motion. “I mean, it’s one thing to let you lot in on base level. Someone has to sweep the floors. But you’re not going to be _training_ us.”

Merlin likes his job. He really, really likes his job. And that is the only thing that keeps him from flat out decking the swaggering prick.

That, and the fact that one of the other candidates clears his throat delicately and says, “If it is indeed a test, I think I can say with confidence that you just failed.”

Everyone turns to look at him, Geoffrey included. Merlin blinks. The boy pushes back a stray lock of his unreasonably fluffy hair and glances around before addressing Geoffrey again, “After all, I do believe if they were trying to catch us off guard, the point would be to _not_ react. And you seem to be making an awful, and might I add, slightly outdated, fuss over something inconsequential.”

There’s silence for a moment, before the boy suggests idly, “Why don’t you apologize?”

Before Geoffrey can retort, Merlin cuts in, “That won’t be necessary…” He draws a blank. This boy is exactly Merlin’s type, or what his type would be if he actually allowed himself to think about it, and he’s making Merlin’s head fuzzy in a very distressing way.

“Harry,” the boy supplies. “Harry Hart.”

Merlin inclines his head and continues, “That won’t be necessary, Harry. Either Geoffrey will accept the fact that I am the one training you lot and fall in line, or he will fail. That goes for the rest of you as well. Is that understood?”

There’s a series of nods this time, and Merlin says, “Very good. Fall out.”

He waits until the door has swung shut behind him to let out his sigh of relief. He still wants to punch Geoffrey, or perhaps a wall instead, but the sensation is lessening.

“Harry Hart,” he murmurs to himself. Lancelot’s proposal, he thinks. He’ll be one to keep an eye on.

***

Harry stares down at the body bag in his hand, tapping the pen against the tag lightly. He really doesn’t want to put his parents’ names on this. They don’t know what he’s signed up for, and they shouldn’t be punished, should he make a mistake. Not that Harry thinks he’ll break the confidentiality agreement, but he knows that sometimes things happen.

His parents still think he’s in the army. If he succeeds here, he’ll tell them Uncle Jack has given him an apprenticeship at the shop. They’ll be thrilled that Harry is no longer putting his life at risk. It’s a very kind and very selfish lie.

“That was nice,” the only female candidate, who had introduced herself as Diane, murmurs to him. She’s taken residence on the next bunk over, her body bag already neatly marked and resting at the foot.

Harry sighs and signs off on his before he turns to her and says, “It wasn't nice. It was basic human decency.”

“Still,” Diane says. “No one else was going to say it.” She leaves him to it, settling on her bed and opening a book.

Harry lays back too and considers the Scottish wizard. Uncle Jack had told him briefly about Merlin.

“He's a few years younger than you,” Uncle Jack had said. “But highly competent. We were all a little nervous when the previous Merlin brought him on, but he's proven himself on multiple occasions. Listen to him, and you'll be alright.”

What Uncle Jack had failed to mention (and it was probably just as well, because if he had Harry would have wondered if something was wrong with him) was that Merlin was drop-dead gorgeous. Okay, perhaps his hair was a little too floppy and unkempt, and he was a bit gangly, like he hadn’t quite grown into his broad shoulders. The suit he wore fit him well, but Harry can easily spot the difference between someone unused to formal dress and someone who wears it as a second skin, and Merlin was the former. But in spite of his moderately awkward appearance, he had beautiful cheekbones and dark eyes that Harry would not mind getting close enough to get lost in, and said floppy hair was a rich black and looked soft to the touch. Harry is man enough to admit he has flaws, and one of his biggest is that he is a sucker for a pretty face.

Even if he doesn’t make it through the trials, Harry wonders if Merlin might be interested in a date. One can always hope.

***

“You’re watching this, right?” Merlin asks the camera. It doesn’t matter much; Walter can’t actually respond to him, but the idea that his mentor is sitting at home, his eyes glued to the screen and one finger on the kill switch in case this goes south, is a comfort to Merlin. This is his second least-favourite task, eclipsed only by the fact that at the end of all this, they’re going to ask a couple of people to shoot their dogs, and he’d told Walter exactly how barbaric he thought it was when it’d been described to him.

Walter had listened to his rant, and then patently explained that if things went sideways, Merlin would have a kill switch that would drain the room. “Of course,” he’d added, “you’ll need to remember that one of them isn’t supposed to survive.”

The mole. One person in the room, the supposed tenth candidate, is supposed to drown. Of course, in reality, Iefan - apparently he’s an import from their tech department in Wales - has a mouthpiece that he’ll put in once he’s sure the other candidates aren’t paying attention to him, and he’ll be fine.

“Or,” Merlin had suggested, “one of the candidates will save the mole. What happens then?”

Walter had laughed, “In the entire history of Kingman, only one person has ever, _ever_ tried to save the mole.”

“But what if it does happen?”

“Don’t worry about it. It won’t.”

Merlin takes a deep breath as the lights shut off on the other side of the mirror. “It’s time,” he says, more to himself than to the camera.

He hits the button.

Initially, in the moments before anyone notices the change, there’s quiet, and for one heartbeat Merlin worries that no one is going to react, that they’ll all drown in their sleep. And then the shouting begins.

There’s the generic cries, “water,” “oh my god,” that sort of thing, followed by Malcolm - Arthur’s candidate - pointing towards the loo and exclaiming, “showerheads!” The moment the words are out of his mouth, everyone seems to understand and dives in that direction, just in time for the water to hit the ceiling.

Merlin’s eyes flick to Iefan. He’s not moving. No one has gone for him, not even Diane. Merlin knows it’s a bit sexist for him to expect her to be the one to save the drowning victim, but she is a nurse. Saving people is her job.

Except then, halfway to the loo, Diane stops and apparently does a headcount, because she swivels around and locks eyes on Iefan’s prone form. Without hesitation, she backtracks, heading for him. Merlin squashes the urge to smirk, but it’s a near thing. He does so love to be right.

The unexpected thing, as Diane struggles with Iefan, is Harry Hart. Even as Diane tugs at the limp form, with everyone else looking on, Harry drops his breathing tube and fights his way back towards them, getting one arm around Iefan and helping Diane drag him over to the toilets, all but shoving the breathing tube down first Diane’s, then Iefan’s throat before he takes another breath himself.

Merlin gives them another minute to look around and wonder, and then he hits the kill switch. The water goes down, and the candidates gasp for breath. Iefan palms his breathing device and stirs, thanking Harry and Diane profusely for saving him.

Merlin gives the camera an “I told you so” look, and goes to debrief them.

***

Harry’s still shaking rather badly as the last of the water recedes down the drain. If he believed in God, he would be thanking him profusely for learning how to swim at age 12. Before that, Harry hadn’t dared set foot near any sort of body of water after a nasty incident at age five where he’d fallen into a lake when his parents weren’t looking.

The door opens and Merlin steps into the room. Harry takes it all back, everything he said about Merlin being attractive, because what kind of sick fuck _drowns_ people for a job interview?

“Congratulations on completing your first task,” he says calmly, as if he hadn’t just risked all of their lives. “Malcolm, well done for remembering basic physics. A breathing tube ‘round the u-bend of a toilet means an unlimited air supply.”

Malcolm preens. Geoffrey looks bitter, but he doesn’t try to challenge Merlin. “As for the rest of you,” the wizard continues, “I'm rather disappointed, because, as far as I'm concerned, all of you have failed.”

“What?” Now Geoffrey can’t seem to hold himself back. “We all survived, _sir_ , in spite of your best efforts. How is that failing?”

“Believe me, Geoffrey, this is far from my best effort.” For all that he doesn’t come across as especially threatening saying it, Harry gets the feeling Merlin is being completely sincere. “And I should correct myself. All of you, with the exceptions of Harry and Diane, failed.” He jabs a finger at Iefan, “Diane was the only one of you who made sure that everyone had gotten to safety, and when she had trouble rescuing a fellow candidate in danger, Harry was the only one who went to her aid. They demonstrated teamwork and an actual regard for human life, something that you’ll find we take rather seriously at Kingsman. It would be wise, in the future, to remember that.”

He turns on his heel, and calls over his shoulder, “There are clean towels in your trunks. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Harry slips through the door before it swings shut, catching up to Merlin halfway down the hallway. Without thinking, he grabs him by the elbow and swings him to a halt.

Or he tries to. With almost no effort, Merlin twists in his grip, getting Harry’s arm behind his back and pressing him face-first into the wall. “Do not _ever_ put a hand on me again,” he says, his voice low and more dangerous than Harry had thought him capable of. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry manages.

Merlin releases him, and Harry stumbles back, rolling his shoulder against the ache. Merlin goes to leave, but Harry says, “Sir.”

Merlin turns back, “Yes?”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Excuse me?” Merlin lifts an eyebrow.

Harry crosses his arms, “If Kingsman is all about regard for human life, it’s incredibly fucked up that you would actually try drowning us all.”

“You signed on,” Merlin says. “You knew the risks. Limits have to be tested. You are not auditioning for a bloody tailor’s apprenticeship, Harry. You are not signing up to join the army. When I said ‘most dangerous job interview in the world,’ I meant it.” He takes a step back from Harry, “I will see you tomorrow morning.”

It’s only as he’s walking away that Harry notices his hand, clutching onto his clipboard like a lifeline, is shaking. Interesting.

***

This, Merlin thinks, is his favourite part of the trials.

“You did well last night,” Walter tells him, closing the latch on the final cage door. “I did wonder if you were going to go soft last minute, but you didn’t so much as flinch.”

Merlin strokes the ears of a beautiful German Shepherd puppy through the bars. She nuzzles against his hand, tongue darting out to lick his wrist. “It was hard,” he admitted. “I’m used to the enemy doing this sort of thing to our agents, but to be the one doing it to them...it was hard.”

“But not as hard as you expected,” Walter says knowingly.

Merlin lets out a shuddering exhale, “Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s not a bad thing, boy,” Walter says. “Sometimes in this job, we need to make tough calls for the greater good. Sometimes that means putting our own agents on the line.”

“But not us,” Merlin says. “We sit behind our desks and watch, but we’re never in any real danger.”

Walter raises his eyebrows, “Would you rather be out there in the field with them?”

“No,” Merlin says immediately. He can’t imagine a better job than the one he’s got. “Like I said, it’s just hard.”

“It’ll get easier.” Walter reaches over and squeezes his shoulder gently, “Go wake them up. I’ll watch the dogs until you get back, and then I’ll split.”

As Merlin goes to do just that, he thinks privately that he doesn’t want it to get easier. He’d rather the pain of making the decision each and every time, knowing that there’s a human life he’s holding in his hands.

***

“What the hell is that?” Harry hears Geoffrey stage-whisper to Malcolm.

“I think he picked it because it’s the only thing fluffier than his hair,” Malcolm whispers back.

Harry ignores both of them and fusses with smoothing down the newly christened Mr. Pickle’s coat. Merlin is up front, marking down their choices on that omnipresent clipboard of his while the unchosen dogs are being carted away. He calls out to the group, “I expect you back here in fifteen minutes, ready to run laps. Your dogs will be kennelled today, and tomorrow we’ll begin training with them. For now, Kingsman’s kennels are straight inside, two doors down on the left. Dismissed!”

As he passes Merlin at the end of the line, the wizard murmurs just loudly enough for Harry to hear, “Good choice.”

Harry pauses, “I beg your pardon?”

Merlin lifts his head to meet Harry’s eyes, “Good choice.” He gestures at Mr. Pickle, “Yorkshire Terrier. Small, scrappy, but a fast learner. Good temperament, easy to train.”

“Much like me, you’ll find.” It’s a bit of a risk, especially this early in the trials, but Merlin’s comment caught Harry off guard, and he thinks he’s mostly forgiven the other man for trying to drown him last night. He really can’t help the tiny purr in his voice.

If Merlin notices at all, he doesn’t comment on it. “We’ll see,” is all he says.

***

Merlin watches from the balcony as Harry easily laps Iefan and Malcolm, his terrier sprinting along diligently by his side. The damn thing’s name is _Mr. Pickle_ , and for all that Harry is doing incredibly well in his training, it’s things that like that make Merlin doubt his qualifications for the position. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t rooting for Diane, both because she is actually highly skilled and because he _really_ wants to rub it in Arthur’s face if she wins. Respectfully, of course.

But Harry...Merlin has mixed feeling about Harry. He’s well-trained, but he seems a bit soft. Also, Merlin’s fairly certain Harry’s been flirting with him. It’s subtle, little quirks of the eyebrow and tiny inflections over certain words, but it’s there. Merlin doesn’t have any interest in taking him up on it, but it’s enough to throw him off balance where Harry’s concerned.

Maybe it’s a tactic to try to do better in training. If so, Merlin will applaud Harry’s cleverness. Just as soon as he gets as far away from him as possible.

***

Harry groans as William throws him onto the mat yet again. Weapons training had been a cinch, but even in the army, hand-to-hand had always been a shortcoming of his, and the large purple splotches starting to bloom across his shoulders prove it. From his position on his back, he has a lovely view of Diane delivering a sharp sidekick to Geoffrey’s knee, followed by a roundhouse kick to his head that has him going down hard enough for Merlin to blow his whistle, signalling to everyone to stop what they’re doing. William offers his hand out and pulls Harry to his feet just in time to watch Merlin stalk over to Geoffrey and Diane.

“Is there a problem over here? I distinctly remember saying that the point of this exercise was to practice your technique, not eliminate the competition.”

Diane looks caught between guilty and defiant. She apparently settles on the latter, because she lifts her chin and says, “Geoffrey said that I hit like a girl, sir. I simply wanted to demonstrate that technique, as it’s clearly more effective than whatever tactic he has been attempting to emulate.”

Silence stretches across the room, and Harry sees the corner of Merlin’s mouth twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “Be that as it may, if it happens again, I will have no choice but to remove you from the trials. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Merlin.”

Merlin nods, “Good.” But as he returns to his place on the side-lines, he calls back, “And Geoffrey? You might want to pay more attention to Diane. You might learn a thing or two.”

William taps Harry’s shoulder, drawing his attention away from the wizard. “Ready to go again?”

He isn't, as a matter of fact, but then Merlin’s gaze swivels to Harry, and he really can’t help the way he puffs up his chest and says, “I’m always ready.”

Less than a minute later, he’s on his back again, and Merlin is suppressing another smirk. So much for looking impressive.

***

“Merlin.”

Merlin halts and takes a deep breath, steeling himself before turning on his heel. “Yes sir?”

“How are the candidates coming along?”

“They’re doing fine, sir.”

“What about Malcolm?” Arthur presses. For all the sharp warnings in his tone, his expression is set to casual, a blatant show to Merlin that he considers this conversation a waste of his time.

“Malcolm is doing fine, sir,” Merlin confirms. Then, “He’s top three material, or nearly, if Geoffrey doesn’t pull ahead in the next few tasks.”

“Top _three_ material?” Arthur’s tone drops dangerously, even as he maintains his mask. “And who, pray tell, are the other candidates outperforming someone selected from the very best stock, bred to be perfect for this position?”

Merlin has always thought it strange that the upper class referred to their children like livestock, but he doesn’t comment on that. “Lancelot and Gawain’s candidates, sir. Harry and Diane.”

Arthur has the nerve to laugh, “A woman and a queer. Believe me, whatever talents you think they possess, they will not last. Kingsman is no place for... _their kind_.” There’s an aggressively pointed look in Arthur’s eye as he says it, reminding Merlin that if Chester had his way, Merlin’s ‘kind’ wouldn't be there either.

Even as his internal organs tighten into a hangman’s noose, Merlin doesn’t let it show on his face. He forces a mildly surprised look, “How can you be certain about Harry? As far as I can tell, he hasn’t done anything to warrant that sort of accusation.”

“He doesn’t have too,” Arthur says. “I can tell. If that boy isn’t a poof, then I’m the bloody queen.”

It’s years of desensitization to those same insults hurled at him that keeps Merlin from flinching at the slur. Instead, he inclines his head slightly, bowing out, and says, “If you’ll excuse me, I do have work I should be attending to...Your Majesty.”

By the time Arthur works out the subtle jab, Merlin has already rounded the corner.

***

They’re down four candidates. Harry’s not precisely sure how badly they did on the test (and really, the questions were absurdly basic in Harry’s opinion, but then again, he’s always tested well), but Iefan, Clive, Russel, and William are all out of the running. Idly, Harry wonders what exactly a top-secret organization does with people who flunk out.

Diane drops into the seat next to him as Florence, her Doberman, settles at her feet. Mr. Pickle perks his head up, and then lays back on Harry’s knee and lets out a huff. “I swear,” she says, “I’m never going to get used to the kickback on the rifle.”

“You’re doing fine,” Harry reassures her. For someone who never held a gun before Kingsman, Diane is a natural. “And you’ll certainly kick my arse at hand-to-hand. What are the odds the Merlin would indulge me in a few private lessons?”

“I suppose it depends on how nicely you asked,” Diane gives him a filthy grin that has no business being on the face of a lady. But that’s not the reason Harry startles.

“How...how did you-”

She takes in the stricken expression on his face and glances around. They’re the only ones in the common room, but Harry wouldn’t be surprised if bugs have been planted, so he’s grateful when she leans close and whispers, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t, you know, out.”

“Is it really that obvious?” Harry winces. He’s not precisely one to hide his sexuality, except from his parents, his uncle, his superiors in the military, the other candidates...actually, now Harry thinks about it, he has been keeping his sexuality under wraps as much as possible, with the exception of flirting with Merlin. Although that’s not so much of a conscious thing as something the Scot just brings out in him. Harry doesn’t fully understand the reflex himself, beyond the fact that Merlin is absolutely Harry's type. Although, thus far, Harry's type seems to be ‘pretty, but an arsehole.’ Merlin is attractive, but he dances along the other line like a professional tightrope walker.

Diane shrugs, “It takes one to know one, I guess.”

Harry blinks in surprise, “You…?”

Another shrug, “For a girl like me, there are worse places than Kingsman to end up. Anyway, I don’t think the others have noticed. Or if they have, they haven’t said anything.”

“And Geoffrey and Malcolm would never pass up such an obvious opportunity to heckle me,” Harry says. Ever since his first comment in Merlin's defence, the other two boys seem to have had it out for Harry. “I'm not entirely sure why I was singled out. I mean, yes, I may have ruffled their feathers a bit on day one, but since then I've been perfectly amicable. Nigel is clearly the better choice for harassment. I, at least, come from equal status, while he is not only of lower birth, but he didn't serve his time like the rest of us.”

“You're starting to sound like them,” Diane comments, a tiny frown creasing her forehead.

Harry pauses, and then squirms as a guilty feeling washes over him. “I didn't mean it like that,” he says softly. “I just meant, that's how it would appear from their perspective.”

“See, I think that's why they might be singling you out, Harry.”

“What do you mean?”

Another shrug from Diane. “With all the ‘I'm sorrys’ and ‘let's be nice and not step on other people's toes.’”

“I still don't think I understand.”

“Nigel may not have served, but he's still built like a soldier. You...well, you don't exactly give off a ‘tough’ vibe, Harry.”

Harry draws himself up to his full height, or at least as close as he can get while still sitting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Diane bites her lip, “Well, you’re not especially...masculine?”

Harry wonders if he should take offense to that. Haughtily, he says, “So what, just because I believe that I am allowed emotions like any other human being, that people should perhaps act civilly towards each other, that means I’m not a man?”

Diane holds up her hands in surrender, “I’m not judging you. But you asked.”

Harry frowns crossly, not angry at Diane per se, but angry nonetheless. So if he aims a little bit lower than strictly necessary, when they get dragged out of bed in the middle of the night for sharpshooting target practice, he thinks he’s fully justified in frightening Malcolm.

After all, for such a ‘tough’ man, threat of a gunshot wound is nothing, right?

***

Merlin wipes his hand lovingly over the six little two-way radios, and then hands them off to Jeanette to be put into the flight suit helmets. He’s been tinkering with a few different projects since he came to Kingsman (a bulletproof umbrella is all well and good, but you can’t shoot around it at all and there has to be a way to compensate for that) but these are really his babies. Someday he’ll improve the distance, maybe make them even smaller or hide them so they’re undetectable, but for now this is what he has time for. Anyway, Merlin considers this project more or less what got him into Kingsman, so it’ll always have a special place in his heart.

“You seem very excited for someone about to throw six people out of a plane,” Dotty comments from her workstation.

“I’m not throwing them out of a plane,” Merlin calls back. “They’re going to jump out on their own.”

Dotty smirks at him, “Still. No need to look so gleeful.”

Merlin’s glee has nothing to do with scaring the shit out of Geoffrey and Malcolm by telling them that someone in their group has no parachute, but it’s not exactly detracting from his pleasure.

***

“Fuck!” Harry’s crush on Merlin is taking another nosedive, because preservation of life can apparently go fuck itself where new recruits are concerned. “How can we know who doesn’t have a parachute?”

“I suggest you figure it out, and quickly,” Merlin says over the radio. “Otherwise the gardeners are going to have one hell of a job this afternoon.” Static crackles, and then there’s silence.

It takes him a moment, but then Harry blurts out, “Pair up! We have an even number. Grab onto a partner, and one of you pull your cord.”

Geoffrey doesn’t even sound resentful when he says, “He’s right!” and grabs for Malcolm.

Harry latches onto Diane, “Ready?”

“Born ready,” she grins at him.

Beside them, one of the pairs has already opened their parachute, clinging onto each other for dear life as whoops of relief echo over the radio. “Wait for it,” Harry murmurs, because his accuracy is rather good and he’s fairly certain they aren’t lined up with the target. “Wait for it…”

Diane’s hand finds his cord, and when Harry finally says, “Now!” she yanks it, hard.

Harry’s chute billows open, and he can’t help but gasp out a sigh of relief. Still, his heart doesn’t stop racing until he has both feet firmly on the ground in the painted white Kingsman logo.

It’s a few minutes before Malcolm and Geoffrey touch down, irritatingly, in the centre of the K. As he suspected, the last pair fell a bit short, and Harry can practically taste the bitterness radiating off them as they untangle themselves and Nigel begins bundling up his parachute in angry swipes.

“Glad to see you’ve all made it to the ground safely.” Harry turns, and there’s Merlin, striding across the lawn with his clipboard, looking calm and collected. “And all under the radar, too. That’s good.” He comes to a halt in front of them, “Unfortunately, you know the rules. Nigel, Kenneth, if you don’t hit the target, then you’re out. Pack your bags, go home.”

Harry watches them leave. Nigel’s fists are bunched angrily in his parachute, and Kenneth’s head is hanging dejectedly as he kicks at the ground with each step. If Harry’s being completely honest, he’s not sure why they’re so disappointed. He’s surprised they made it this far; they’re good enough at physical tasks, but they aren’t the brightest, and it's clear Kingsman is looking for at least a spark of cleverness in their agents.

Harry refocuses when Merlin speaks again, “Congratulations to the rest of you on completing another task. Get some rest tonight. You’ve earned it.”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through Harry’s veins, but he doesn’t follow the other recruits as they start trudging back to the mansion. Diane throws a confused glance over her shoulder, but Harry waves her off and her eyebrows go up, a smirk curling at her lips as she understands and abandons him. Harry looks back to Merlin, who hasn’t budged, and is instead watching him with an unsettlingly blank expression.

Harry takes a few bold steps towards the wizard. “You know,” he says, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to kill us. Again.” He can't bring the words to sound angry, though, and instead they come out almost playful.

“Kingsman believes in the-”

“Preservation of life, yes I know,” Harry interrupts him. He doesn’t want the spiel right now. There’s something itching under his skin, and his next words take on a slightly darker tone. “So who was it? Which unlucky person’s life did you choose to risk?”

“No one.”

Harry tilts his head, pushing back his hair as it flops across his vision, the product beginning to lose its hold. “What do you mean, no one?”

Merlin holds his gaze, “I told you. Kingsman believes in the preservation of life, Harry. We do not condone unnecessary violence or bloodshed.” He slows down his words and enunciates each one, the spaces stretched out between them so Harry doesn’t misunderstand, “Every single one of you had a working parachute.”

Harry falls silent as he takes in that information. They all had working parachutes. But then… “So why did you-”

Merlin finally breaks eye contact in favour of staring down at his clipboard, and Harry feels like a weight has been removed from his lungs, only to sink deep into the pit of his stomach. “People have a tendency to assume someone in a position of authority is speaking truthfully, especially about malicious truths. At least one of you wouldn’t have tried to pull your cord, thus you would have all believed me when I said one of yours didn’t work. The goal is, as always, to make you think. To take the creative route while still accomplishing the objective.”

Without meaning to, Harry advances another few steps and stops close to Merlin, less than a meter away. “So,” he says as casually as he can manage, “does taking the creative route include asking the instructor for private lessons? Because my unarmed combat could use a bit of work, and I think some...hands-on practice with an expert is just what I need.”

Merlin swallows visibly and takes a step back, and suddenly Harry is deeply regretting his boldness. “I’m hardly an expert, and giving you private lessons would be unfair to the other candidates.” He tucks his clipboard against his chest, a physical barrier between himself and Harry, and adds, “Although, a word of advice? If you stopped peacocking around, trying to impress everyone, and focused on the technique, you’d do a lot better.” He sidesteps, moving around Harry to make his way back to the mansion.

Harry watches him go, standing on the expansive Kingsman lawn and clutching his helmet like a fool.

***

Merlin closes the door to his office behind him with a loud thud that makes him flinch involuntarily. He takes a deep breath and places his clipboard on the desk before he breaks it, his fingers curling around the edge of the solid wood instead, the corner biting into his fingers just shy of painful.

He is actually pleased with the outcome of the test. It’s about time Nigel and Kenneth went home. He’d been able to tell from the first day that neither of them were Kingsman material, and quite frankly he’s not sure what Bors and Kay saw in them to begin with.

He’s especially pleased that, during the test, no one panicked, because Merlin had had that covered. The moment he silenced the radio, he had a tiny heart attack in his office, and was forced to remind himself, not for the first time, that he sent people out into the field like this on a regular basis. Still, it’s harder, knowing that these aren’t fully trained agents. Someone could have gotten serious injured if there had been a panic, and Merlin is so, _so_ glad that at least these candidates had shown some common sense in the face of danger. Walter had told him a horror story about the last batch, the Tristan candidates, where upon everyone else opening their parachutes, the last person hadn’t even bothered to check, and had broken their neck, along with several other bones. It’s stories like that that make his carefully tailored, blasé attitude so hard to maintain.

What he’s not pleased about is the nerve of Harry fucking Hart, asking for private lessons in that stupidly seductive purr of his. Merlin’s almost angrier at himself for being tempted by something so basic. He is not out, not here, not now, and probably not ever, and he’s not going to risk his career and his safety over one unfairly attractive boy with unnecessarily warm brown eyes.

There’s a hesitant knock on his door, and then Jeanette pokes her head in, “Merlin?”

“Aye?” he answers, trying not to sigh and almost succeeding.

“I took a look at those blueprints you put on my desk this morning, and I had a few ideas.”

Merlin smiles and beckons her in, “I’d love to hear them.”

***

Harry feels vaguely like a stalker, hanging around outside the tech department, but he’s not allowed inside, and he thinks what he has to say will sound a bit more sincere if it’s not immediately preceded by him picking the lock. Mr. Pickle prances restlessly by his side, but Harry doesn’t give him the command to sit still. At least one of them could do with working off some nervous energy.

The door swings open, and Harry perks up, only to slump back against the wall in disappointment when a blonde woman steps through. She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows at him, “Can I help you?”

“I’m, ah…” Harry clears his throat, “I’m looking for Merlin? I’m Harry, Harry Hart. One of the Galahad candidates?”

“I know who you are,” she says, and turns on her sensible heels and marches right back into the tech department. She returns a moment later, Merlin by her side.

He gives her a brief nod, “Thank you, Dotty.”

She tilts her head in acknowledgement and continues down the corridor. Merlin turns to Harry, “What is this about?”

Harry winces as the speech he’d rehearsed suddenly flies from his head, “Well, um, the thing is…” He squeezes his eyes shut and forces out two words, “I’m sorry.”

When there’s no immediate response, Harry opens his eyes again. Merlin is frowning. “You’re sorry,” he repeats.

Harry nods earnestly, “I am. I was thinking about it last night, and I really just wanted to apologize to you for what I said after the parachute test.”

Merlin tenses up, but before he can run off again, Harry barrels on, “I could tell I made you uncomfortable, and I just wanted to reassure you that it will never-”

“Harry,” Merlin says quietly, cutting him off. Harry stops, Mr. Pickle settling by his side and cocking his head curiously at Merlin’s soft tone. “You have to understand. It was inappropriate, not just what you said to me, but how you said it.”

Harry’s heart climbs into his throat. He doesn’t think Merlin is about to kick him out of the trails just for...but then, Harry’s been wrong before.

Nervously, he stutters, “I know, but I didn’t mean-”

Merlin’s voice is very low, barely above a whisper when he says, “I don’t care if you’re gay, Harry. But there are a lot of people here who will care, a lot. And if they find out, kicking you out of the trials will probably be the kindest response you’ll get.”

Harry winces, but Merlin continues, “You cannot keep flirting with me. Arthur hates me as it is, and I don’t want to lose my job because he decides that you showing an interest in me means _I’m_ queer too.”

There’s a bite to Merlin’s voice when he voices the slur, but it’s not directed at Harry. “So, you’re not-”

“I’m not fucking gay, no,” Merlin snaps, “and I’m definitely not interested in you, or in having my life ruined because you’ve decided to pursue a straight man.”

Harry shrinks back, and the fight disappears from Merlin, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“No, no,” Harry says quickly, “I understand. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry.” He’s actually a bit torn, unsure if he believes Merlin or not. Harry knew plenty of men in the army who would insist they weren't gay, both before and after bedding Harry. Then he reminds himself that it doesn't matter. Merlin has made the boundary line very clear, and if Harry wants to have any shot at staying in the trials, he has to respect that.

“Apology accepted,” Merlin says. “Now, I know you missed lunch, skulking around out here. Go get something to eat. The workout I've got planned for you this afternoon is brutal, and you don't want to attempt it on an empty stomach.”

“Duly noted,” Harry says. He hesitates, and then asks, “Why are you helping me?”

“I wasn't aware that I was.”

“I mean, you're not,” Harry agrees. “Not in any way that might give me an advantage in the trials, at least. But...I don't see you making comments about the other candidates picking the right dog, or telling them that we all had a parachute. Diane hasn't mentioned any special instructor-student chats, nor have any of the other candidates indicated that you've spoken to them beyond what is absolutely necessary. So why me?”

Merlin is quiet for several moments, and then he says, “You have a lot of potential, Harry.”

“So, what, you’re rooting for me to win?” Harry gives him a grin.

“No,” Merlin says bluntly. “I’m not allowed to play favourites, but if I were, I wouldn’t pick you. I think you’re too soft for Kingsman.”

Harry’s grin slides away, replaced by burning anger, “What, because I’m ga-?”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Merlin interrupts him. “I’m not telling you this because I want to put you down or make you lose faith in yourself. There’s nothing wrong with being soft, with having a regard for life. But can you look me in the eye and tell me that it isn’t going to kill you every time you have to pull the trigger? Every time you get someone’s blood on your hands? Can you look at me and say, with complete confidence, that that guilt won’t keep you up at night?”

Harry looks Merlin, the man who lied to them and threw them out of a plane but then reassured Harry that they were all safe, the man whose hands shook because he’d had to drown a roomful of people he’d just met, and says calmly, “Can you?”

Merlin blinks. He looks away, “I made my decision.”

“With respect, sir,” Harry says, “so have I.”

***

“This is the part of your training that I highly doubt any of you are prepared for,” Merlin informs the room at large. “All of you come from similar backgrounds. You’ve been in the military, so you know how to handle a weapon or at least some basics on how to defend yourself.” He nods at Diane, who wouldn’t have been allowed to use a gun, but who he knows took several ‘unladylike’ self-defence courses and who had shown the most promise in hand-to-hand combat. If she wins, he is definitely going to customize her some stilettos with poisoned blades hidden in the heel. He continues, “However, this is a bit different.”

That's an understatement. Merlin is used to watching the agents use their nlp training, both on mission and off, but teaching a room full of people in their mid-twenties how to flirt effectively is not his idea of a good time.

“Does anyone know,” he asks, “what neuro-linguistic programming is?”

Predictably, they don’t, but it’s not difficult to go through a brief explanation of the linkage between behaviours and word choice. He starts with the basics, because despite what some agents seem to think, there’s more to nlp than just seduction. It’s also useful to establish covers and befriend targets.

When he finally does get to the seduction bit, the response is predictable. Geoffrey smirks, “Sorry, you’re going to teach us how to bed women? Some of us have that covered already.”

And here is the part that Merlin has been especially dreading. “Not just women, Geoffrey. Regardless of how talented you may or may not be in the art of seducing women, and I’m personally inclined to think the latter, Kingsman targets will not exclusively be female.”

It’s suddenly quiet enough to hear a pin drop as silence echoes around the room. Finally, Geoffrey says, “I’m not a fucking queer.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you were,” Merlin says calmly, even as his chest tightens uncomfortably at the slur, “nor do I think the agents will take kindly to you using such language to refer to them for fulfilling a requirement of the job. And it will be a job requirement, mark my words.”

Geoffrey blanches, and Malcolm’s eyes widen. Neither Harry or Diane react, but Merlin can see the way Harry’s fingers have curled into a fist under his desk.

He clears his throat, “So if any of you think that’s something you can’t handle, perhaps your talents might be better suited elsewhere.”

Silence again. Merlin waits another few heartbeats, and then says, “Very good. Now, while many of the basics are the same, you’re going to find there are clear differences in approaching a man versus approaching a woman.”

***

While Harry thinks it’s a bit hypocritical of Kingsman, expecting male agents to seduce men but then turning around and condemning anyone who is actually gay, he’s also rather thrilled at the prospect. He thinks he’s done rather well in nlp training, but he supposes that’ll be put to the test tonight.

When Merlin had explained the challenge, Geoffrey and Malcolm had both torn their envelopes open and sighed in relief. “Thank fuck,” Geoffrey had said, revealing the picture of a smiling woman.

Harry is almost disappointed. It would be just like Merlin to assign them a male target. Still, he should be able to beat them out. When they were getting ready, Malcolm and Geoffrey had both donned formal attire, suit jackets over button-downs. Harry actually bothered to read the file. As such, his hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing the leather jacket he requested his uncle to retrieve from his parents’ estate.

Diane must have had a similar idea, because her hair is up in a twisted knot and she has a leather skirt that only goes halfway down her thighs. If Harry liked women, he might actually be tempted. It’s a good look.

The club is loud, and Harry leans back, swirling his glass of champagne idly as he attempts to read Malcolm and Geoffrey’s lips. They’re both falling over the target, practically shoving each other out of the way, and it’s clear she’s not impressed, judging by the way she keeps backing away from them.

Diane plops down into the booth next to him, “Weeding out the competition?”

Harry takes a swig of champagne and responds, “They’re such idiots. By the end of the night, I could be twice her age and balding, and I’d still look like the better option. I’m simply allowing them to take themselves out of the running.” He goes to offer her a glass too, noticing there isn’t one in her hands, but she shakes her head.

“I’m doing the same, actually.”

Harry frowns, about to ask her what she means, but then his head starts to spin and he drops the glass, gripping the booth tightly in an attempt to keep from falling over. Diane, blurry in his vision, looks sympathetic, “I thought so. Sorry, Harry, but if we’re going to be secret agents, we probably should know better than to drink something we haven’t poured ourselves.”

“Di...did you drug me?” The words slur together as he fights for consciousness.

“I didn’t,” Diane says, but it’s like listening to someone speaking through a bubble, “but I thought Kingsman might have. Looks like I was right. Sweet dreams, Harry.” She pats his hand and stands up, sauntering over to where Malcolm and Geoffrey are starting to sway too, and then Harry’s vision cuts to black.

He wakes up, predictably, tied to train tracks, with an ominous man leaning over him.

***

“I told you they wouldn’t all fall for it,” Merlin tells Walter, watching through the shitty club security camera as Diane pulls their plant, Maria, through the back door of the club, both women giggling. He hadn’t actually given Maria license to leave with anyone, but he figures he can’t be too angry, given that it means Diane not only avoided the trap, but successfully won over her target.

“Trust me, this batch seems to be unique,” Walter informs him. “I’ve never seen a group of candidates quite like this one.”

Merlin personally doesn’t think they’re anything special, but he trusts Walter’s judgement. He switches cameras, watching as Harry comes to on the railroad tracks. He doesn’t so much as flinch when Edwards waves the knife at him, and through the radio Merlin can hear his slightly bored remarks.

“I believe Jack London is the name of a famous American novelist. As for Kingsman, well, I can’t imagine why you’d go to such trouble over a tailor shop.”

Merlin glances at Walter, whose bushy white eyebrows are raised. Merlin stifles his smirk as the train rushes over the platform, and then Harry is calmly being raised to face Agent Lancelot, who has taken Edwards’s place.

“You do know it was fairly obvious who kidnapped me, don’t you?” Harry asks Lancelot as he cuts the ropes.

“And yet you still didn’t say anything,” Lancelot responses.

“Well of course I didn’t say anything,” Harry huffs. “If you _were_ Kingsman, you weren’t about to run me over with a train, and if I’d made a mistake and you were actually the villains, then I’d have just revealed everything to the bad guys, wouldn’t I? You know I’m not about to put the organization, or my parents for that matter, at risk like that.”

Merlin’s heart clenches. He’s right. Harry’s too soft. There’s no way he’s going to be able to shoot his dog.

“Maria,” he says quietly into a different channel, watching Harry and Lancelot make their way out, presumably to join him in his office, “please drug Diane, would you?”

***

Harry is still buzzing with adrenaline even after Merlin has dismissed them for their twenty-four hours with their sponsors. Yes, he’d been fairly confident he wasn’t in any real danger, but the aftermath still has all of his senses on high alert.

He’s not sorry to see Malcolm and Geoffrey go. Malcolm had been blabbing the moment he saw the knife, well before the train had even started to roar down the track. Geoffrey, at least, had held out until the last second before trying to cut a deal. He’s surprised they got Diane, but given that she was tied to the tracks by the woman they were supposed to be seducing, he figures that was a setup too. As much as he wants this position, he thinks it might be okay if she gets it. She’ll make an incredible agent.

“So,” Harry asks Uncle Jack. “Last night. Any words of wisdom?”

“Listen to Merlin,” Uncle Jack tells him. “Listen to Merlin, and you’ll be alright.”

Harry blinks. “Alright.”

Uncle Jack smiles at him, “Come on. I could use a drink, couldn’t you?”

“As long as this one isn’t drugged,” Harry says, and follows after his uncle.

***

It’s late, or is it early? Merlin’s not sure, given that he hasn’t been able to sleep, but either way it’s still closing in on two in the morning. Kingsman runs twenty-four hours a day, and as such several of his people are at their desks, working away on various projects. He has the blueprints for the Rainmaker spread out across his desk, but it’s gotten to the point where all the little details are amassing into one large blur. He rubs his eyes and fumbles for his coffee cup.

Before he can close his hand around it, it slides just out of reach, and Walter sits down on the corner of his desk. “It’s late, boy. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you,” Merlin retorts.

“I know what it’s like to have this job consume you,” Walter tells him, “but not tonight. Tonight, you need to get some rest.”

“How can I?” Merlin asks helplessly. “Diane’s a nurse, and Harry’s...Harry. They both would be an asset to Kingsman, but I don’t think...I don’t think either of them can shoot a dog.”

Walter nods, “Maybe you’re right. After all, you’ve been right and I’ve been wrong at every turn these past few months.”

“I don’t know which is worse,” Merlin says softly. “Being right, and having to lose both of them, having to train a whole new set of candidates, or being wrong and making them live with that decision.”

Walter looks at him like he did that first day, like he’s sizing Merlin up. “Do you know why we don’t make Vivien shoot a dog to become Merlin?”

He shakes his head.

“Because Vivien is on this side of the desk. It’s a handler’s job to make the hard calls, and if their agent lives or dies, that’s on them. On the other side of the desk, it’s a different story. Their job is to listen to you. And if they can’t do that, it’ll get them killed.” He reaches out and squeezes Merlin’s shoulder, “You’ve done a good job with them, boy. And who knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll be the one that’s right. Now get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Merlin mumbles. He doesn’t have the energy to make it home, but he makes it to the cot in his office and curls up. When he sleeps, he dreams of a smoking gun and teardrops falling like blood, splashing crimson against a hardwood floor.

***

“You wanted to see me?” Harry asks as he steps into the room. Merlin is standing by the window, looking out over the grounds, and he turns when Harry approaches. His eyes flick down to Mr. Pickle, who sits by his feet when Harry gives the hand gesture.

“I did,” Merlin says.

“Is it about the last test?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Merlin says. “You’ve done well, Harry.”

“Better than you expected?” Harry asks. He’s holding true to his promise not to flirt with Merlin, but it’s hard sometimes. Especially given the grave expression on Merlin’s face. He really wants to knock it off and make the tech wizard smile.

“Exactly as well as I expected,” Merlin answers. He draws a gun from the back of his trousers, cocking it and checking the safety. Harry tenses for a moment, wondering if it’s going to be pointed at him, before Merlin offers the weapon out to him.

Harry takes it hesitantly, “What’s this for?” He hefts it in his hands. It’s loaded.

Merlin’s lips purse, “I’m sorry, Harry.”

His frown deepens, “Sorry? I don’t-”

“Shoot the dog.”

Harry’s entire world freezes. He stares at Merlin, “You can’t...you can’t possibly…” He looks down at Mr. Pickle, who cocks his head and wags his tail. He looks back to Merlin, “Whatever happened to-”

“Harry, shoot the damn dog or leave,” Merlin snaps. “I told you, limits have to be tested. Either you’re too soft for Kingsman, or you’re not.”

Harry gulps and takes a step back. His hands are shaking as he aims, unsteady enough that he’s worried he’ll miss entirely. Mr. Pickle’s tail stops wagging. He doesn’t look frightened, just confused at whatever game his master is playing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Harry chokes out. The shaking gets more violent and he readjusts his grip. “Merlin,” he begs, “please don’t make me do this.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Merlin says again.

Harry wants to cry. He wants to curse Merlin, and Uncle Jack, and all of Kingsman for leading to this-

Harry’s thought process comes screeching to a halt.

“Listen to Merlin, and you’ll be alright.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being soft, with having a regard for life.”

“Listen to Merlin.”

“People have a tendency to assume someone in a position of authority is speaking truthfully, especially about malicious truths.”

“Listen to Merlin.”

“Every single one of you had a working parachute.”

“Listen to Merlin.”

“They demonstrated teamwork and an actual regard for human life, something that you’ll find we take rather seriously at Kingsman. It would be wise, in the future, to remember that.”

Harry looks at Merlin. He looks down at Mr. Pickle. His hands still shaking, he lines up the shot, closes his eyes, and squeezes the trigger.

***

Merlin nearly jumps in alarm when the gunshot goes off. Harry opens his eyes, tears already spilling over, and looks down to see Mr. Pickle cowering, whining at the loud noise. Harry drops the gun and scoops the puppy up into his arms, crushing him to his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs into his fur, “I’m so sorry, I would never hurt you, I would never…” He trails off, mumbling indistinctly, and Mr. Pickle wiggles in his grip, trying to lick the tears off his face.

Merlin bends down and retrieves the gun. The “bullets” are special, something Walter showed him how to make. Their agents are trained to recognize the difference between the weight of a gun with bullets and the weight of one with blanks. The weight difference of these is enough to trick anyone holding it into thinking it’s actually loaded.

“Harry,” Merlin says slowly.

Harry holds up a hand, “If you’re about to say congratulations, save it.”

“Actually, I was going to say I’m sorry.”

For the first time since he pulled the trigger, Harry looks at Merlin, “You’re...sorry?”

“If it were up to me, I would say fuck tradition. No one should have to shoot their dog.”

“Oh.” Harry is silent for a moment, and then he says, “I suppose Diane failed, then. I didn’t hear another gunshot. Unless...?”

Merlin shook his head, “She was called, same as you.”

Sure enough, Arthur’s voice crackles over the radio, “Merlin? Send in Harry, please.”

Merlin gestures towards the door, “He’s in the dining room. I assume you know the way?”

Harry nods. He turns to go, and then pauses. “What’s going to happen to Diane?” he asks. “She’s good, Merlin, you know she is.”

Merlin purses his lips. He’s been thinking about that all morning, thinking about what he might do if either or both of them failed. “I think,” he says slowly, “that if we don’t have an opening for her, MI6 might.”

Harry nods again, looking satisfied. “You know,” he says, “I think, if Arthur was giving me the test, I would have failed too.”

“Oh?” Merlin frowns at him, unsure where the admission is leading.

“I don’t trust Arthur. I hardly know him, but from what you’ve said he sounds like a right prick.” Merlin doesn’t comment, because it’s his boss, but silently he nods. Harry continues, “I don’t trust Arthur. But I do trust you.”

Merlin’s heart catches in his throat, and as Harry pulls the door open, still holding tight to Mr. Pickle, Merlin can’t help himself. “Harry.”

He pauses, “Yes?”

For a split second, Merlin considers risking it all. For just one, single, solitary second, he thinks about telling Harry. And then the second is over, and reality sets back in. Merlin clears his throat, “Congratulations, Agent Galahad.”

Harry gives him a small smile, “Thank you, Merlin.”

The door swings shut behind him, and Merlin stands there, holding a gun full of blanks, and steels himself for what comes next.


End file.
